Baby It's Cold Outside
by Lily Thistle
Summary: Go skiing, they said. It's fun, they said. The fresh mountain air is good for your health, they said. Obviously they never tried going skiing with Sherlock Holmes. Because that's not fun at all. And there's always the danger of ending up in a hospital with a broken leg. Or a broken neck, come to think of it.


A/N: Happy Birthday, Maria! And may it be a merry one.

Here's my present: I wrote you a fanfic (which is not weird ... at all)! And I'm sorry - I know it's set in the winter and it's not winter yet, but, starting in August, I can only write something with snow in it (or angst, but I figured that that wouldn't be a good present).

Anyway, this is for getting me into Johnlock fanfics, and for listening to my stupid problems, and for cheering me up, and because you share my love for Roger Federer and Jared Padalecki. So, yeah, I hope you have a wonderful birthday and that all your wishes come true.

Stay as brilliant and as awesome and as nice as you are.

*hugs*

Astrid

* * *

John finds himself gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, his knees nearly giving way. His whole face is red; his lips are sore and swollen. He can't feel his toes, he can't feel his fingers. His brain is focused on one thing and one thing only.

Getting down this mountain alive and in one piece.

Go skiing, they said. It's fun, they said. The fresh mountain air is good for your health, they said. Obviously they never tried going skiing with Sherlock Holmes. Because that's not fun at all. And there's always the danger of ending up in a hospital with a broken leg. Or a broken neck, come to think of it.

Of course, Sherlock would never go skiing because it's fun or good for one's health. No, he has an ulterior motive for dragging John all the way to Switzerland and up this mountain. This very high mountain, surrounded by more very high mountains, all covered in glittering, brilliantly white snow. Actually, it looks a bit like a fairy tale, as if the snow is actually millions and millions of tiny diamonds.

But John has no time to admire the scenery. All he can do is concentrate on one thing: staying alive. John has had some experience with snow and skis before. That was about 25 years ago. His parents had taken him and Harry on a skiing holiday to Scotland. It hadn't been John's favourite family holiday. Firstly, he had sucked at skiing. Secondly, he had sprained his wrist. And finally he had spent a whole week with his parents, which is never fun for a teenage boy. And here he is again, 25 years later. He still sucks at skiing. He's sure he'll hurt himself again. And he has to spend all his time with Sherlock.

There's only one thing that can lure Sherlock out of 221b Baker Street and all the way to Switzerland: a case. Yes, Sherlock has a case. John isn't yet quite sure what's going on, but he knows that they're trying to catch a thief. This thief is currently in possession of a very expensive, very tiny, and very spoiled show dog. Why Sherlock took this boring, mundane case? John has absolutely no idea. All he know is that they're currently in a pursuit down a very steep piste, if you can call it that. Because this part of the mountain is definitely off-limits to the public. The snow seems to be at least knee-deep and there are no visible tracks from other skiers. A little bit further down, John can see the edge of a forest And that's where they're heading.

Sherlock, apparently, knows how to ski. Which is an understatement. John is reminded of a professional skier, going for gold in the Olympics. Is there something this man can't do? He and the thief are some way ahead; they have almost reached the forest. Meanwhile, John is trying to remember everything he learned 25 years ago. But he has a hard time doing that when all he really wants to do is to watch Sherlock and admire his nearly non-human grace.

This whole situation reminds John of _The Pink Panther_. Not that rather bad movie with Steve Martin, but the old movie from the 60s. If he remembers correctly, there's a scene with a pursuit on skies. Just when he tries to remember what exactly happened in that movie, the thief reaches the forest and vanishes between the trees. Sherlock follows shortly afterwards, not even slowing down a bit.

Suddenly, the trees grow larger and larger very fast. It's impossible for John to focus on steering and braking simultaneously. But because he's lucky, he doesn't hit any of the first few trees he passes. They whizz past him, mere blurs of green and brown and white. But the thing about forests is that the branches prevent the snow from covering the ground evenly. There are still some brown roots sticking out of the white blanket.

John only realises this when it's already too late. One of his skies gets caught on an enormous root. John loses his balance and trips over, falling head first into a snowbank. This is accompanied by an unpleasant snapping sound. The fall knocks all the air out of John's lungs. All he can do is to lie on his back, covered in snow and twigs and fir needles, gasping for breath. But breathing hurts, and moving hurts, and moving his right ankle hurts more than anything else.

John is stranded in a forest halfway down a mountain somewhere in the Swiss Alps, unable to move because of a broken ankle. And Sherlock won't even notice that he's gone. He never does, especially when he's on a case. John carefully pulls out his phone. But he has no signal. Of course not. For a short moment he considers shouting for help, but decides not to. Avalanches, you know. So he sits up carefully and leans against the nearest tree, facing downhill, trying to come up with a plan.

Hours and hours seem to go by, and it's slowly but surely getting dark. John doesn't like this. He's sure he's hypothermic by now. At least he can't remember ever being this cold. The lack of movement isn't helping. He tries to get up, but his ankle isn't having any of this. John survived Afghanistan, but he won't survive a skiing holiday with Sherlock.

Speaking of Sherlock … John isn't sure if his mind is playing tricks on him, but he can hear the distant sound of skis on snow. And it's drawing nearer and nearer. John peaks around his tree, trying to find out if the cold has made him delirious or if he's saved. John is saved - and by none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

"Sherlock?" he exclaims surprised.

"John!" Sherlock replies relieved, as he slides to a halt next to John's tree.

"So, what brings you here?" John asks, trying to sound casually, which is really not that easy, because his teeth won't stop chattering.

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock inquires concerned.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," John assures him. "Just admiring the view, you know."

Sherlock looks at him confused. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"No, of course I'm not all right!" John shouts, dropping the act. "I've been sitting here for about five hours, while you were busy solving a case! I'm hypothermic, my ankle is broken, and I can't get a signal on my phone!"

Sherlock takes his skis off and leans them against the tree. "I'm sorry, John," he says calmly. "I came as fast as I could."

"You mean you came after you caught the thief, flew him to London yourself, handed him over to Lestrade, had tea with Mrs Hudson, and solved today's Sudoku!" John continues shouting.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch as if he's trying very hard not to laugh. "No, I didn't catch the thief," he says.

"What? Why not?" John asks, caught off-guard by this answer.

"Because I was looking for you, obviously," Sherlock answers, looking a bit annoyed.

"Then what took you so long?" John demands to know.

"I couldn't find a big enough blanket." Sherlock takes off a backpack, opens it, and pulls out a huge, fluffy, orange blanket.

Now it's John's turn to look confused. "What would I need a blanket for?" he asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "To keep you warm, of course."

"What are you talking about?" John is annoyed. "Are you telling me that I nearly froze to death because you were busy looking for a blanket when you could've gotten help instead? And now we're both stuck on this mountain with only one blanket to keep us warm?"

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock says with a serious expression.

"Good. Because for one moment I thought that-"

"I also brought tea." With these words, Sherlock drops the blanket onto John's lap and pulls a thermosbottle out of the backpack.

John feels his heart sink. "And what now?"

"Now we wait for help," Sherlock answers while kneeling down next to John's legs. He carefully removes the ski from John's left foot. John conveniently lost the other one when he crashed.

John is surprised to find that he can move his leg, and that it's not frozen to the ground. "Help is coming, right?"

"Mhm," Sherlock mumbles, his attention still on John's legs. "We should remove your right skiing boot."

"No, we shouldn't," John corrects Sherlock. "It could damage the ankle even more."

"All right," Sherlock sighs and gets up. "You're the doctor." He picks up the blanket. "Lean forward."

John does as he's told and Sherlock drapes the blanket around his shoulders. Then he pulls a lamp out of the backpack, a big camping lamp, and switches it on. Finally, he twists off the lid of the thermosbottle and pours hot tea inside. He hands John the cup.

John slowly takes a few sips and feels his whole body warm up. He sighs happily, the exertions of the day nearly forgotten, and closes his eyes. Then he feels something drop next to him.

"Don't fall asleep, John," Sherlock snaps.

John opens his eyes again. Sherlock is sitting right next to him, fumbling with the blanket and finally pulling it around himself.

"What are you doing?" John asks suspiciously.

"Keeping you, and myself, warm," Sherlock replies, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

_This isn't so bad_, John thinks, while trying to find a more comfortable position without spilling his tea, unconsciously shifting closer to Sherlock. For some time, the pain in his right ankle keeps him awake. But after half an hour his eyelids grow heavy and he slowly drifts off.

Suddenly he feels warm lips being pressed against his temple. His eyes snap open again. He looks at Sherlock, confused. "What was that?"

"You were falling asleep again," Sherlock says.

"And you are trying to keep me awake by kissing me?" John asks, even more confused.

"It's working, isn't it?" Sherlock points out, smiling slightly.

John just shrugs, too tired to argue with Sherlock. He leans his head against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock lifts his left arm and puts it around John. A voice in John's head is trying to point out how ridiculous this situation is, but John isn't listening to it. This is too nice and too comfortable to be spoiled by something as cold and distant as reason.

Finally, John really falls asleep. He completely forgets that he's stuck on a mountain, that there isn't any help coming (because if someone would be looking for them, why haven't they found them already?), and that Sherlock is acting rather weird.

Then John isn't sure if he's dreaming or if this is really happening. In his dream, Sherlock cups John's face in his hands and kisses him on the mouth. But when John awakes with a start, Sherlock is staring straight ahead, absorbed in thought.

"Did you just-?" John asks.

Without looking at him, Sherlock replies: "You were falling asleep again, John."

John rolls his eyes. He's really not sure where this is going, but he just discovered that he doesn't mind Sherlock kissing him. It gives him a funny feeling in his stomach that warms him more than any tea ever could. And he decides to inform Sherlock about this.

John clears his throat. "You know," he says, "I don't mind you kissing me."

And then John has to stifle a laugh when he sees the look on Sherlock's face. It's a bit similar to John's reaction when Sherlock told him that they would be going skiing in Switzerland: utter bewilderment.

"Don't think that I don't know what you're doing," John goes on. "You're not just kissing me to keep me awake. Because that's not usually how you keep your flatmate from freezing to death."

For one moment John thinks that Sherlock is going to disagree with him, but Sherlock just stares at John as if he can't believe the things he's hearing.

John sighs and shakes his head. "Sherlock Holmes, I will never understand what's going on in this funny little brain of yours." And with that he puts his right hand behind Sherlock's head, pulls him close, and kisses him on the mouth.

Sherlock doesn't see that coming. And John knows that Sherlock is trying to make up his mind whether to pull away or not. Eventually, he decides on the former.

"John," he says, "I'm not sure that you're sure what you're doing. Maybe you're not thinking straight because of the cold-"

John groans. "Well, you're the one who started it all," he says, while running his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls.

"Could you please stop doing that?" Sherlock snaps. "I'm trying to think."

"For once in your life," John sighs, "could you please stop thinking?"

And for once in his life, Sherlock doesn't disagree with John, and continues their previous activity. With a slight change. He kisses John rather forcefully, sucking John's lower lip into his mouth. John responds with a stifled moan. He's sure that Sherlock is reacting to this with a smirk, but he doesn't stop; instead, he deepens the kiss.

After some long minutes, John pulls away, gasping for breath. Also, this sitting position he's in is getting more and more uncomfortable. But before he can do anything about this, Sherlock turns his attention to John's neck, nibbling, and biting, and sucking at the sensitive skin. John's eyelids flutter and then he shuts them completely, losing himself in the sensation of Sherlock's mouth on his skin.

But then he feels something else entirely. Sherlock is trying to undo the zip of his ski trousers. John tries to move away, but fails miserably, due to his ankle.

"What are you doing?" he ask yet again.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Sherlock whispers, his voice deeper than usual and strangely hoarse.

John wants to object, but he can't because his throat is suddenly dry. Also, he's distracted by Sherlock suddenly straddling his lap, which sends a sharp pain through his ankle.

"Sherlock, my leg!" John protests.

"Damn your leg," Sherlock murmurs absent-mindedly.

"Sherlock, this isn't funny! I'm in a lot of pain here," John goes on half-heartedly.

But Sherlock shuts him up by crushing their lips together. John winces, but doesn't push Sherlock away – he wants this – _oh God_, he really does.

Suddenly the surroundings are flooded in blazing white light and John can hear the sound of a helicopter approaching. But he's unable to see anything because the light is blinding him. Then footsteps are coming nearer and nearer, and then a voice says: "Am I interrupting something?"

John looks up, screwing up his eyes in an attempt to recognise the newcomer. "Mycroft?"

* * *

There's one thing John likes: Swiss hospitals are more like five star hotels than hospitals. Well, at least the one he's in. He even found a piece of chocolate lying on his pillow when he was taken there yesterday evening.

There's one thing John doesn't like: his ankle is broken, so it's in a cast now. And his foot is itching like hell, but he can't do anything about it.

There's one thing John loves: Sherlock hasn't moved from his side since yesterday. John is pretty sure that he didn't even sleep, as if he thought that John was still in danger of freezing to death, even though they are both in a warm hospital now. John also suspects that Sherlock feels guilty about the accident, but that's just a silly thought. Sherlock and a bad conscience – what are the chances of that happening? Actually, what are the chances of anything that has happened since they left 221b Baker Street two days ago happening?

At the moment, John is alone in his room, his computer next to him, reading the newspaper. Another nice thing about Swiss hospitals: free wifi. Sherlock stepped outside a few minutes ago to talk to Mycroft. John still feels a bit uncomfortable around Mycroft, and Sherlock knows that. That's why they're having their conversation in the corridor. Meanwhile, John is trying to wriggle his toes to do something against the itch, but he stops, because it's just too painful.

After some more minutes, the door to his room opens. Sherlock is about to come back, and this thought fills John's stomach with butterflies.

But then he hears Mycroft say: "So, your plan – it worked, I take it?"

John can see Sherlock nod in agreement, before he enters and closes the door behind him.

"So, what did Mycroft want?" John enquires.

"He just wanted to see if you're all right," Sherlock answers. "I told him that you'll live."

"We'll see about that," John says. "My foot is itching and that's slowly killing me."

"Oh, stop whining!" Sherlock sighs, while throwing himself into the nearest chair and looks at him.

"What plan did Mycroft talk about?" John asks, sounding casual.

"It's nothing," Sherlock replies.

But John is suspicious. "Sherlock, that case, the dog thief … what happened to him? Did the police catch him?"

"How would I know? After all, I was busy looking after you," Sherlock says.

"I was just reading the newspaper," John goes on. "And I also looked up this dog we were supposed to find. Turns out, there's no dog with that name."

"So?" Sherlock asks. But he's not looking at John anymore; his eyes are fixed on a point somewhere above his head.

"There never was a case, was there? And please tell me that you didn't make all of this up to lure me to Switzerland."

Sherlock clears his throat. "So what if I did?"

"So you did?" John exclaims. "You invented this case to get me to go to Switzerland. And then you made me go skiing, knowing that I wasn't very good at that, hoping that I would have an accident. Why would you do that?"

"What else was I supposed to do?"

"To do about what?" And then the penny drops. "Sherlock! You thought that if I had an accident and you woulf rescue me, I would fall in love with you! I bet the thief was just an actor, wasn't he? And Mycroft knew about this, didn't he? He deliberately waited this long to come and get us!"

Sherlock doesn't reply, but keeps looking at that spot right above John's head.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard! Why would you do that? Normal people just talk about their feelings; they don't try to kill the person they have a crush on!"

"Dull," Sherlock murmurs.

John opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then he says: "I don't believe this. That's it! No more crap telly for you." If that's Sherlock's idea of a romantic holiday, then John is dreading the proposal.

But then Sherlock looks directly into John's eyes. "I'm sorry, John," he says. "I didn't mean to cause you any inconvenience."

John is surprised by Sherlock's honest apology, but the still has to ask: "Sherlock, is this your idea of a romantic holiday?"

Sherlock doesn't reply to that.

"It is, isn't it?" The voice in John's head is trying to tell him that he's slowly going crazy, but he can't stop himself from bursting into laughter.

Sherlock stands up, looking uncomfortable. "John, again, I'm really sorry. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. I-"

But John interrupts him: "Shut up and kiss me."

* * *

A week later John is released from the hospital. Mycroft comes by to see him off. He doesn't do that because he's such a nice person, but because he loves to poke his nose into other people's business.

"So, going back to England now?" he asks while John fills out some forms.

"No," John answers.

Mycroft looks surprised. "Why not?"

"Somebody owes me a holiday," John says, glancing into Sherlock's direction.

"So you're just going to stay here?" Mycroft asks, looking at Sherlock as well.

"Well, it's a nice country," Sherlock replies, sounding bored, presumably because he thinks this conversation to be entirely unnecessary.

"Also, our hotel is quite lovely," John adds. "Some of the rooms even have a fireplace. And Sherlock and I have some things to catch up on."

And with that John links arms with Sherlock and together they leave the hospital.


End file.
